


the moon in your hips ignited something in me

by infestedpiano



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Good Writing, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Metaphors, No you don't, Outer Space, Top Wilbur Soot, for once lol, if you see typos, not like explicit though, these bitches gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infestedpiano/pseuds/infestedpiano
Summary: for if the being dancing across the clouds, wonder and grace tangled in his curls, the night stars making his eyes their dwelling place, is making him feel this way, then what could it be other than love?
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 18
Kudos: 64





	the moon in your hips ignited something in me

**Author's Note:**

> i've been reading too much goddam poetry anyway have this which i am actually proud of

wilbur is a dust-breather, star-eater, a poet with vicious hands. he creates and then he destroys. that is the way of life, the cycle of how things are. there’s a hole in his chest, and he eats his art to fill it temporarily.

the creator is a monster. a beast. the creator devourers all and spares no mind for anyone but themself.

that is true, as truthful as you can get.

wilbur belongs to the sky, has pressed star dusted lips to cosmos, stretching far as the eye can see. has cradled stars in his hands, and squeezed them till they popped.

he creates, and then he destroys, for this is the way of life.

wilbur could burn the whole world, yet there is frostbite on his bones, and it would not change the truth.

the creator does not love.

that is not entirely true.

for if the being dancing across the clouds, wonder and grace tangled in his curls, the night stars making his eyes their dwelling place, is making him feel this way, then what could it be other than love?

his breath catches whenever the ghost of a ocean god’s fingers skim the valley of his ribs, ribs that hold a pandora’s box, horrible things reside inside and yet at the very bottom there is hope.

wilbur does not fall, he is precise in all that he does. but wilbur has fallen, is falling, but if promises swapped in honey milked nights, where everything seems slower, mean anything, then schlatt will surely catch the sky god.

trust is unfamiliar, trust is something new. when things are new, wilbur twirls them between his cold fingers, inspecting it before he knows it well enough than anyone. 

it’s stupid of him to try and do the same to schlatt, but you could say he has a complex.

and he tried, oh how he did. you cannot control what is made to be free. they are both animals in this game, but wilbur will let the one in him love what it loves.

schlatt has high spirits, soaring up and up and up even though his region is down below, where waves wrap around you like a hug but then you realize- it’s a chokehold, you are drowning. what a well-played game, although this is checkmate.

“darling, let’s die a little tonight.” and schlatt looks at him with something sharp in the way he holds himself.

wilbur’s positive if he has a go at him, he can make his edges dull.

(he will learn, later, that it’s all cover. they both are the same and not the same. they are the same and maybe that’s why they’re in love.)

wilbur’s traces the curve of the ocean god’s neck with his lips, ozone crackling in the air. and schlatt breathes out his name like it’s a prayer, skin throbbing like the streak of a meteor through rain.

his chapped mouth fucking unravels wilbur, like he is nothing more than a plaything under his thumb. unlike how he is a god, a powerful being, succumbing to a god who walks on mortal lands.

fingernail tracks scraping maps of passion across bodies, connecting like dynamite explosions. schlatt will drive wilbur crazy, he is sure of it. 

wilbur looks forward to that happening.

“you are the first thing i have ever found that cannot be defined and picked apart.” wilbur whispers, after all has been done. schlatt is cradled in his arms, folded against his bare chest.

the ocean god snorts, and wilbur’s eyes track the sound back to the man himself. he is jagged, sharp pieces stuck together to create a million reflections. wilbur can only see one, and it is in his arms.

there is a spark in schlatt’s eyes, one that should probably be smothered before it creates a raging fire. but wilbur will stoke that spark until the skin on his body crinkles and peels back.

“i think i humble you, loverboy.”

there are a million things wilbur could say. he feels for schlatt with such ferocity that words do not comprehend what he feels. ironic, how the creator cannot create.

nonetheless, wilbur traces poetry on the other’s sunkissed skin, nursing the ocean god like he is not reckless and risky, and yet knowing that he has the power to crack him open and let him spill himself dry.

when schlatt falls asleep, wilbur closes his eyes. they are a rhythm, notes clashing together in ways that could tear the world to shreds. and yet, if you try to play them without each other it doesn’t sound quiet right.

wilbur wakes up, the sun slanting across schlatt’s cheekbones and his curls spilled across the pillow. the sky god takes a moment to admire the body pressed against his, how he can feel every rise and fall of the smaller’s chest.

fingers that have spun cosmos, stretched supernovas, have curled inside an ocean and asked  _ is this alright? _ skip over jagged scars on the tanner’s body. strings them together like they are broken constellations.

wilbur’s lips press down on the constellation he made.  _ ethereal _ .

he creates, but he will not break this one.

and he thinks,  _ love is only powerful because there is a risk of losing it _ .

he knows what that means now.

(the slowest rotating planet in our solar system is venus, goddess of love. we carry her in our ribcage and when we have made someone into our sun, we cannot spin quickly enough away from them.)

schlatt blinks awake, tiredness weighting at his bones as he tilts his head up to lock eyes with the taller.

“you’re still here.” the words seem to sink in the air like he is pronouncing them with such a heft that they cannot be supported by his own breath. they speak of waking up alone, of nursing wounds that come from the inside, of no one having stayed for him.

something in wilbur’s chest shifted, like everything else fell away. he cupped schlatt’s face, holding him like he was his moon and stars. in a way, he was greater.

“of course.”

schlatt’s hands tremble, like the air after one plays the organ pipes, and wilbur takes them in his and plants kisses upon the bruised knuckles. he hears the other’s breath hitch, and it ignites something in him.

the ocean god’s laugh is soft and rumbly, like far away thunder. “you’re a sap, wil.”

wilbur grins, fondness creasing the edges of his eyes. he would like to have that laugh play in his mind over and over again, would like to blink and see imprints of brown eyes memorizing him.

he bumps his head against the other, “you love it.”

schlatt hummed, capturing wilbur in a short kiss. he tasted like sea salt and spice, like finally coming back to the home you never had. “occasionally.”

the sky god chuckles lightly, holding the other closer to himself. he thinks, that maybe he’s finally reached nirvana. 

(“i love you because i know no other way.”)


End file.
